i don't write
poems
anymore
the words
are not
in my head
to be written
to be said
they are not
in my heart
to be etched
upon the page
they no longer
linger
upon my tongue
whispering
to be sung..
the space
they once
poured from
that hole
within my chest
has been

.. healed?

and
i find
i do not
write
poems
anymore..

not
any
more

i find
myself living
instead

Leaves crunch beneath our postman's feet
Fussy songbirds slowly advance up Wilkerson
Street
The familiar and the new , cedar greens and
beautiful sky of blue
Majestic pecan , centurion oaks
Hopscotch squares chalked on a lazy road
Where people still blow car horns and wave
Where church bells and courthouse clocks
measure the day* ..

Trapped in a briar patch with the sun
falling ever faster
A rite of passage that every child
should have to master* ...

Crows have gathered in a brown field
sprinkled with frosted glitter
Sunshine wanes and flickers with
burst of artistic vigor
Woodland song , bluejay gay revelry along pinewood rows  
Water oaks crowned with mistletoe
Christmas Day adorned with the blessings of home* ...

Somebody got a shotgun from Santa
If I craved loud noise I would move to Atlanta
They've fired it every ten seconds
At least they seem to be firing in the opposite
direction
Woe unto me , the southern holiday firearm obsession* ...